new kicks

Oct. 11th, 2017 12:29 am
galligaskin: (Default)

It took me eight months (!), but I finally found a new pair of sneakers. Behold, the Ahnu Sugar Venture Lace in Twilight. (A mouthful, but not as delightfully free-associative as the Hoka One One Speedgoat 2 in Peacoat/Ceramic.)

I don’t love them, but I’ve only really loved one pair of shoes. They were high-top Chuck Taylors with flames, the perfect accessory for any Catholic school uniform, and the answer to years of mom-approved white Reebok Princesses.

I have another pair of shoes that I want to love. When I graduated from college I bought myself a commemorative pair of 14-eye Cherry Red Doc Martens. Seven years and as many bloody ankles later, and I’ve still never broken them in. They live in a plastic under-bed storage bag they doubles as a lounge for my cat. These days, I wish I’d bought a more modest six or eight-eye black boot, something a little less flashy, a lot less Ronald McDonald. (Or Miley Cyrus). But I just can’t seem to sell them. They’ve moved with me to six apartments across three states. They are a durable symbol of youthful silliness, ass-kicking boots for someone who kicked-ass at college humanities.

Until this evening, it never occurred to me to google “Dr. Martens break in.” The internet is rife with stories and advice, including debates about burning and hammering them. I will do neither. I’m wearing them now in bed, twisting my heels until the leather squeals. Maybe in another 8 months they'll be ready for work.

hello world

Oct. 9th, 2017 11:02 pm
galligaskin: (owl)
I last posted to an online journal 149 weeks ago. Why restart now? The communities and journals I followed are dead. Livejournal, once a beacon to my closeted queer self, is now censored by the Russian Federation. Am I experiencing anticipatory grief for AIM?

I tried tumblr. I use instagram—and wordpress—and facebook (begrudgingly).

But I’m nostalgic. I don’t want 140 characters--I want 65,355 bytes. I want a lock-able corner of the internet (mostly) undiscoverable by my distant relatives, high school graduating class, and any employers. I want friends, not followers, and a username, not a “Real Name,” so I can continue to define myself inexplicably as the single pant-leg in a pair of 16th century breeches.

So here I am.

According to the Dreamwidth statistics page, the majority of users are 27 years old. This is comfortably above the mean age distribution of Tumblr, where nearly half of users are 18-24. Now, I don’t mind being friends with the kids these days, but I find myself disinclined to wade into the choppier open waters of the blogosphere to meet them. And I don’t want to “curate” anything that isn’t a museum exhibit.

This is my origin story. My internet career began in 2000 when I was adopted by regulars on the AOL Teen message board, Favorite Authors. My screen name was Hobyah13. A hobyah is a trooping English bogie, of low intelligence but great tenacity. Hobyahs, like Pokémon, cry their own names in battle. According to Mr. S. V. Proudfit (who introduces the species in More English Fairy Tales), hobyahs are extinct, having all been eaten by a little dog named Turpie. This was so amusing to my middle school self that I became Hobyah13, and a friend, Hobyah11. My handle was in turn eaten by AOL chat moderators after the account was hacked. Unsurprisingly, it has never been used by anyone else.

Over the next seventeen years, I branched out, authoring an open diary, a ujournal, and finally, an lj (after waiting a year for the invite code). I kept a tight f-list of people I still miss. Now, it feels dissociating to be without a true online community, and to find myself stumbling over new norms and new slang. (Case in point: I just wikipediaed “internet slang” to make sure no one called it netspeak or chatspeak).

Here’s hoping I’ll find community here...or at least start to write again.
galligaskin: (cutesnail)

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